


We Had Honest Intentions, We Swear

by mylittlepeachtree (littlekookiejar)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Scott McCall, POV Stiles, Short & Sweet, scaredy cat stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 15:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10311326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlekookiejar/pseuds/mylittlepeachtree
Summary: Scott and Stiles decide to do some digging at the old Hale house while Derek's not home. They get a little distracted...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short little peek into what I think it could've been like if Sciles was cannon (this fic is ooooold. Like srs I wrote this in 2012)

 

Stiles liked to think that he’d never encountered a luck he wouldn’t try and push. It was as though his brain didn’t exactly know when enough was enough - which, he thought, it probably didn’t. Stiles assumed that the part of his brain responsible for logical decision making had been damaged after he fell off Scott’s trampoline when he was eight. He was perfectly capable of acknowledging a dangerous or potentially harmful situation which could in no way be improved by his sarcastic remarks; it’s just that his brain had a tendency to overlook the assessment entirely, and continue with the sarcastic remark-making regardless.

This lack of better judgement was how he ended up standing on the ground outside the Hale house, in the middle of nowhere, and in prime position to be conveniently murdered.

One thing kept entering Stiles’ mind, no matter how many times Scott tried to reassure him; just one thing which kept repeating and echoing throughout his head.

_I am going to fucking die._

He lifted his foot and placed it gingerly on the first step. It gave a groan of protest which seemed to reverberate through the trees like a shotgun.

_Fuckingfuckfuck._

It made no difference how many times Stiles chose to play the situation out in his head, they all ended the same way; gruesome and bloody death, with a side of more death and possible decapitation.

_I’m too pretty to die…_

After two minutes of internal debate, (which was a very close call between curling up in a ball on the forest floor, or continuing on his current path to committing a felony), Stiles chose the manlier of the two options and took another step.

He could see the shadow of his best friend shuffling around inside the run down house. If Scott hadn’t decided to be adventurous, he wouldn’t have to be in this position at all, and could be quite comfortable back in the safety of his room.

Rather than scaring the shit out of himself with all the unlikely scenarios which he imagined could take place, he took two relatively shaky breaths and moved forward over the old wood.

Scott’s warm voice shouted out from inside the house, making Stiles wince with its confident volume, “The longer you take, the more likely it is that we’ll get caught!”  
“I am so glad I have your intelligence to aid me,” he announced in return. Derek would skin them alive if he found out they were snooping around his house, which was something Stiles sincerely hoped to avoid.

A subliminal war was raging on between his mind and his body. While his overconfident brain was encouraging him to, _“Be a fucking man”,_ his body was extremely determined to prove that he was most definitely _not a man,_ and was in fact scared shitless.  
Neither of these approaches were helping him to do anything remotely productive.

 

Scott was torn between laughing and yelling. Stiles was stuck on the front porch like a deer in the headlights. His golden eyes were wide and pleading, and his knees were shaking so violently beneath him that Scott was surprised he could stand upright. It had occurred to Scott that he should do something other than shout teasing jokes out at his best friend, but then it had also occurred to him to take out his phone and start videoing Stiles’ meltdown.

Why Stiles looked to Scott for emotional support was beyond him.

They knew Derek would only be gone for the better part of two hours, and Scott had hoped to cover a reasonable amount of the house in that time. They didn’t even know what exactly they were searching for, they just hoped whatever they found would give them some idea of why Derek was so _grumpy_ all the time.

And from the looks of the room Scott was standing in, his disposition to be a sour-faced Adonis for 90% of his day also left him with a penchant for dirt.

Scott risked another glance back out the grime-coated window, slightly blackened from the fire which tore through the walls 10 years earlier, and saw an almost unbelievable sight. Stiles had taken two more steps towards the door, and was now just over an inch from crossing the threshold.

As pleasantly surprised as Scott was, he was silently praying that Stiles stopped freaking out before he gave himself an aneurism.

 

Most people knew about Stiles; most people that counted, anyway. They had pretty much come to the conclusion on their own, choosing to think what they wanted, or believe what was most convenient.

Problem was – nobody actually knew as much as they thought they did. There were rumours and discussions which circulated Beacon Hills about him, things which his father chose to overlook, or eventually ran out of steam.  Despite the fact that his entire life had been spent in the relatively small community, not much attention was ever paid to the Stilinski boy. If anyone ever gave him a second glance, it was generally out of pity, followed by a passing thought about wasted potential.

He was thought of first and foremost as the Sheriff’s son; a troublemaker. The only person who had ever seen him as somebody worth caring about, was Scott. In all the years they’d known each other, Scott had never judged him for failing a class, or occasionally committing a crime. It was generally acknowledged between the two of them that breaking the law was an acceptable past time. Scott really had no grounds to judge since he generally always participated in Stiles’ crazy, mostly illegal, sometimes possibly fatal, plans anyway.

One time Scott accidentally walked in on Stiles while he was in the shower and caught a rather sad – and naked – impromptu performance of “Copa Cabana”. Neither of them had spoken about it since, and in light of the fact that Scott had stuck around after the embarrassing debacle, Stiles had deemed him worthy of the Stilinski friendship.

When Scott had been turned into a werewolf, Stiles had spared a moment to think about what would happen to him if he had found himself alone in the woods that night, instead of his friend. Scott’s life had been turned upside down with the effects of his new condition, and it was slowly driving him insane.  
For all it was worth, Stiles knew he’d never make a very good werewolf. With his hyperactive nature and ability to out-talk pretty much anyone, he’d be all over the place like a mouse on crack.

Stiles turned around and looked back over the ground he had managed to cover (a whole of 10 feet in the last hour), and glanced up at the sky to see a flash of lightening ripple through the clouds overhead. The last of the blue sky was being chased off into the distance, and an eerie calm had settled over the woods surrounding them.

 _The calm before the storm_ , he thought dimly to himself.

He could hear what he hoped was Scott moving around inside the house, sounding like he was getting closer to Stiles’ stationary position by the door. He had contemplated actually going inside, but thought the better of it. Not that his friend wouldn’t need help searching the house, and would greatly benefit from the help of another person, but Stiles figured if he went inside he would just freak out again, and since it had taken him such a long time to calm his heart palpitations, he wouldn’t really be much help at all. Also outside was easier to make a quick getaway.

“You coming in?” Scott’s laugh rang through his ears, and he whipped his head around in time to see the dark haired boy wander off, back into the darkness of the house.

“I will come in when I am positive that there is no threat of being eaten alive by a pissed off werewolf,” Stiles remarked, “Until then, I will be quite happy to keep a look out; outside near the car… and open spaces.”

Scott’s hand appeared out of the shadows and grasped tightly onto the front of Stiles’ shirt, pulling sharply and tugging the reluctant boy into the desolate house.  
“Just so you know,” he shook himself off and flattened down the ruffled fabric, “This shirt is new.”

 

Scott rolled his eyes. They both knew the shirt was the same one that Scott bought for Stiles two years ago, when he’d crashed spectacularly into the sausage stand at a charity food drive, and had walked away covered in a rather copious assortment of sauces.

People had often questioned the friendship the two boys shared; most of the time it was recognised as just a close relationship after years of being together. Others said differently – especially Danny.  
Danny, the goalie on the school’s lacrosse team, was out and proud. Nobody cared; it was just something that made Danny who he was. The boy intrigued Scott for some reason. Perhaps it was his  confidence and pride in who he was, and his “fuck you” attitude if you ever got on his bad side, but in the back of his mind Scott had a nagging fear that it was something entirely different; a curiosity.

In the corner of his eye he could see Stiles moving off to investigate the rest of the house, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, nonplussed by his earlier fears.  
Stiles confused Scott.  
Scott knew Stiles as well as he knew himself, his voice was as comfortable to him as his own, and his excited movements were hypnotising to watch. But his mind was another thing entirely. He was extremely intelligent, and had the sort mind that could sink ships, but he never seemed to care much about it. Some days he would get lost in thought, completely occupied with some new obsession, and disappear in a haze of determined investigation. He would become so wholly absorbed in one thing and manage to cover the subject so thoroughly you’d think he was an expert, but he could never focus his attention on the assignments at school.  
There was a blind affection Scott had for Stiles, he sort of fond feeling which almost alarmed him at times. It wasn’t as though he ever found himself completely _attracted_ to Stiles, it was just an overwhelming sense of comfort and familiarity which made him feel like it could almost make its way out of platonic, and right on into ‘ _Well, this is awkward’_ territory.

Maybe that’s why Danny was so interesting to Scott. He was so self-assured and aware that Scott was almost jealous. He craved that sort of knowledge and lifelong acceptance of who he was. Scott wanted a definitive answer to his questions and curiosities, something that he would never doubt or lose faith in.

Scott needed something that would reassure him whenever he was hit with the desire to just reach out touch Stiles, the way he was right at that moment. He wanted more than anything to just walk up behind his friend and place a hand on his back. He could practically feel the heat seeping into his hand; feel the heartbeat beneath his fingers and the shallow, steady movement of Stiles’ breathing. He could imagine the smell, the way that Stiles always smelled, like the earth. No matter how often the boy showered, he could never lose the smell of pine trees, or the fresh scent of rain. It was ingrained into his body; it was a part of him.

 _Shit_ , Scott knotted his hands angrily behind his back, _that’s not normal._

He could handle feelings like this if they were about _anyone else._ But the fact that it was Stiles completely terrified him. They’d spent so long together that they were almost the same person; Stiles was so comfortable and relaxed with Scott that their relationship was the last thing he wanted to jeopardise. Stiles was a constant in his life, they went through the same motions every day, like a routine. If either one of them happened to come down sick and couldn’t make it through their routine, it wasn’t right. Nothing fit the way it should and the world seemed to feel almost uncomfortable, as if it were under their skin.

Stiles was family to him. Since he had received the bite and all of his senses had been significantly enhanced, he had started noticing certain things about the way that his friend looked and smelled. Not only was Scott’s own scent ingrained into Stiles’ skin, he had begun to _look_ like he belonged to Scott. There were bruises and scars on his skin from their playful fighting, just little marks that could all be traced back to Scott, but they said something incredibly significant; Stiles was his. Those marks and smells were all signs of ownership and possession. It spoke a tale to any other werewolf that came across his friend – the boy had been claimed.

Scott relied on Stiles, more than even _he_ was willing to admit. Unfortunately, the true significance of that was lost on him. No matter how many times he repeated it in his head, Scott couldn’t understand what it meant.

 

Stiles took two steps into one of the rooms at the back of the house and sneezed loudly. There was a heavy film of dust hanging in the air, making the room extremely uncomfortable to be in. The tiny little dust particles had settled over the threadbare furniture which remained, building up into a large collective layer and turning everything to grey.

It was almost as if the house had been uninhabited for an eternity, considering the state that it was in. There was a couch upturned in the corner of the room, and upon closer inspection it was revealed to have several long claw marks ripped into the material.  
There was a fire place at the far end, directly opposite where Stiles was standing. It was large and ornate, but the original grandiose it would have once possessed had suffered significantly after many years of disuse.

Stiles’ nose twitched again, and rather than stick around to watch as his eyes filled with water and he grew in greater discomfort, he opted to leave the creepy room altogether.

He strolled lazily back into the main entrance to the house, peering out the hazy window at the storm which had now fully rolled into view, and was almost directly overhead. The first few drops of rain had started to hit the ground, and the earth was beginning to dampen.

Stiles looked over his shoulder, searching for the source of a set of footsteps which were interrupting his peaceful mulling. Scott was huffing around at the top of the stairs, succeeding in doing little other than displacing more dust. His brow was creased, gaze deepened with thought, and his hands where twitching at his sides.

From the angle of Stiles vision on the first floor, it was easy for him to appreciate the view. Scott was standing almost exactly on the top step, facing him and scanning the house with a rather intense glare on his face. Instead of considering the reasons for his dark expression, Stiles’ mind chose to slow down and examine the image before him. Scott’s dark hair had fallen in front of his eyes, which were almost black and shining with emotion. The large windows behind his head were letting in a cool blue light from the sun struggling to break through thick storm clouds, and he looked almost as bad-ass as Derek.  
The light behind him, as well as the lack of light in the house itself, had combined to give him the avenging best friend that looked like a bat out of hell.

It terrified him and intrigued him at the same time. The sheer power at Scott’s disposal, and the care and finesse with which he used it always made Stiles feel both wary, and awestruck. He remembered feeling a similar way the morning after a particularly memorable full moon. Stiles had awoken to find half of a deer, and several bunnies, carefully positioned on the hood of his jeep. After the wave of pure repulsion which had him retching amongst the hedges, he sobered considerably and dared a call to Scott. Turns out it was a peace offering after a mild row they’d had the day before. Neither of them thought much of it at the time, but apparently the puppy inside Scott had taken offence. It was the sheer power and dominance over these other helpless animals which frightened Stiles to death, but also completely amazed him. There was a new, completely unknown side to Scott, and he was going to have tonnes of fun finding out more about it.

Another perk of his current position was the ability to see the full silhouette of Scott’s jeans. Not that he’d ever admit it, but it was just a passing thought.

The shadows across Scott’s face made him look older than he really was, weathered with time and hard decisions. The dark glint in his eyes was unforgiving, determined to look anywhere other than the boy at the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Why are you _staring at me?_ ” Scott growled. Stiles was watching him with a curious expression on his face. His eyes were glowing a bright luminous gold in the haunting light, flicking over every inch of Scott, studying the twitch of his fingers or the rise and fall of his chest. Under the weight of that intense stare, his skin was crawling and his whole body was itching with heat. It made him feel sick.

Scott knew the things which kept Stiles awake at night. He knew the dark nightmares which plagued his friend, terrified him and controlled his will. Failure and self-loathing were the most overused words in Stiles’ internal monologue. They were powerful words that he knew could dig deep and cut him til he bled, and yet they were thrown around with utter carelessness. Scott knew that when Stiles was on his own he wondered what people saw in him. He wondered why his dad put up with his reckless antics, or why Scott was so often by his side.  
Scott could never find an answer that could satisfy the boy; because there wasn’t one. Stiles was just Stiles, and that was the only answer Scott could come up with.

 

Stiles’ breath caught as his friend moved gracefully down the stairs, taking each step one by one. The boy spared a thought of regret for his unco-ordination and awkwardness, picturing the spectacular broken bones which would have wracked his body had he been the one to walk down the rickety staircase unaided.  
And people called him stupid. There had been a reason he chose not to walk _up_ the staircase in the first place.

 _I was just preventing further injury_ ; his mind shared the same distress as his body when it came to his awkward movements, because walking down is _hard._

Scott stopped only when he had reached the very last step, and he held an arm out towards Stiles. It was a confusing gesture, or at least it was to Stiles, so the boy simply stood there for several moments just staring at Scott’s upturned palm.

Which probably made things a little bit awkward.

“Stiles?” Scott’s discomfort was beginning to show. He had begun to shift his weight from foot to foot, and had started to fiddle with the fraying hems on his sleeves.

Stiles was startled with the transformation between the vengeful dark werewolf that had been standing high above him, and the person before him now. Scott’s eyes were no longer dark and malicious, they were pained and weary. He was tired.  
Standing before him was a boy, scared and unsure, showing vulnerability in himself that Stiles doubted had ever been seen before.

He wondered if Scott realised just how breakable he really was.

A werewolf he most certainly was, but invincible; he was not. There were things which terrorised Scott when he let his guard down. There were things which burned his resolve beyond recognition; things which were locked away behind a dozen brick walls in his mind, then buried six feet down.

And sometimes that scared him. Sometimes Scott’s overconfidence in his doggy abilities made Stiles fret for the human side of his friend. Scott was relying on something that was not his to control, that was never even his to begin with. The wolf was a part of him, no one was denying that, but it was not everything.

“Stiles.”

The voice broke through his reverie. It was only a short word, but it held so many different meanings. It was a name, what people called him, how he was known. It was a person, who people saw and talked to, and some even cared about. It was a question, a voice asking for a response and seeking an answer.

“Yeah,” Stiles moved forward, standing just out of reach of the arm before him; which happened to be attached to an insecure looking werewolf.

Scott raised an eyebrow, which instantly made the boy jealous. For as long as he tried, he had never been able to pull off a raised eyebrow.

“You’re eyebrow is twitching.”

_…. Shit._

“That’s odd,” Stiles answered back. _Smooth._

His hands were wringing themselves anxiously behind his back, twisting and shaking, just itching for something to do. He had to move, say something, or do something to break the tension that seemed to hang in the air between them.

He had no idea where the awkwardness had developed from, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, but both of them certainly knew what it was. And Stiles knew what it meant.

Normally the first to talk his way out of uncomfortable situations, Stiles had been confident in his ability to charm his way back into known territory. He would constantly defuse the unwanted rumours surrounding his sexuality with a laugh and a shake of his head. They didn’t faze him, it’s not as though it mattered or made much difference to his life, but on the inside he had always been wary of how it would affect his friendships; especially the closeness between him and Scott. His heart kept telling him to open up to his best friend and have someone to confide in, while his mind kept telling him not to say anything, that it didn’t matter, and if it ever became an issue then they would talk about it.

It was most definitely an issue now.

“Scott,” Stiles trusted his friend, “I really need to tell you something.”

 

Scott didn’t really want to hear what his friend had to say. He had a feeling he already knew. The way Stiles was staring at him, pupils blown wide and lips moist, there was no mistaking the intention in his eyes.

There was a smell of cookies wafting around him, in between the earthy smell of the rain outside and the choking dust layering the rest of the house. It seemed to be emanating from Stiles.

Scott leaned slightly towards his friend, noting how the boy took a wobbly step back, and sniffed the air.  
Yep. It was most definitely coming from Stiles.

Since his transformation from human to “overgrown puppy”, Scott had noticed a distinct difference in the way people smelled. Derek had told him that everyone had a unique sent, which changed depending on their mood or particular emotions.  
Scott had learned that when Allison was upset she smelt like cinnamon, and when Stiles became angry his scent changed to that of burnt coffee.

Apparently Scott had just learnt what Stiles smelt like when he was aroused.

 _Cookies_ , the dark haired boy thought to himself, _of course it had to be fucking cookies_.

Scott happened to like cookies… a lot.

Looking back at what had happened next; Scott wasn’t really sure why he did what he did. But he still did it. And it felt good.

 

Before Stiles could fully comprehend what was happening, Scott’s lips were pressed firmly against his, and his tongue was toying with his bottom lip.  
It wasn’t exactly pretty; it was rough and messy. But there was a desperate anxiety between them that was hard to ignore. Neither of them knew what the hell they were doing, or whether or not they would regret it afterwards, but still they didn’t stop.

It wasn’t as though Stiles had expected fireworks and a chorus of angels when he finally had his first kiss, but he wasn’t really expecting to be awkwardly making out with his best friend in the middle of a breaking-and-entering venture either. So it was safe to say that all of Stiles’ previous expectations had spectacularly somersaulted through the window and landed squarely in the ninth circle of hell. The way Stiles pictured it; his daydreams of his first kiss were crashing and burning, along with his dignity, and the last remnants of his friendship with the boy currently tonguing his lower lip.

Scott’s hands were twisted roughly in the cotton of his shirt, and Stiles felt helplessly weak underneath the strength and pressure that his friend was applying. It was as though at any minute Scott could break a bone with a twist of his hands, or draw blood with the flick of a finger. Stiles felt fragile and breakable; like Scott’s restraint was the only reason he was in one piece.

There were no words, curse words or otherwise, that could possibly describe the heat that was burning its way through his lungs. It was like being set on fire and doused with ice water at the same time. His body didn’t know what to do or which way to go, all it seemed capable of doing was staying upright; and even _that_ was a shaky job.

Scott’s hands had moved to encircle Stiles, providing extra support just in case his traitorous knees decided to buckle and send them sprawling to the floor.  
An alarming dizziness overcame Stiles’ mind, making him sway slightly on the spot and Scott’s hands tightened protectively around his waist. It took him a moment to realise what had caused the sudden wave of vertigo, but when he did it was definitely not as officious as he had been expecting.

_Breathe, Stiles, breathe._

_I may be passionately kissing my best friend but this is not the time to be forgetting rudimentary functions._

A hot metallic saltiness filled his mouth, covering his lips in a tangy taste. Someone’s lip was bleeding.  
Stiles wasn’t sure who it was that had been injured from their overzealous biting, or who exactly had caused it, but it shocked him back to reality.

They were still in the Hale house, and still at the foot of the stairs, so _that_ hadn’t changed. But the eyes that bore into his own were wild and animalistic, hungry and empowered. Scott’s lower lip was red and swollen, bleeding slightly, and his hair looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed.

A few minutes might’ve only passed, and they might’ve still been standing in the same position – save for a few roaming hands – but there was a definite change in the dynamics between the pair.

Scott’s shoulders tightened and he let out a long, low growl, “ _Stiles…_ ”

His hands gripped roughly at the front of Stiles’ shirt, and for a moment the boy seriously feared that it would be stretched beyond recognition, and pulled him flush against his chest.  
Scott’s mouth attached itself to any inch of skin that was available for claiming, pressing harsh, violent kisses into the skin.

“Are we going to talk about this or are we—oh okay, we’re just gonna keep with the kissing thing. That’s fantastic.” Stiles breathed out a soft whine as Scott mouthed at the skin beneath his lips.

 

Scott’s actions were feral and reckless, thrashing and tearing desperately at the cloth covering Stiles’ skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The wolf inside him was taking control of his motor functions, and Scott was a helpless observer. It wasn’t as though he was particularly upset with the results; his hands seemed to be taking off Stiles’ shirt, and he definitely wasn’t going to try and stop them.

 _Besides,_ he mused softly to himself, _he’s enjoying it._

From what he could see of his soon-to-be-former-friend from his current position, Stiles was lapping up his advances like a cat being given a head rub. His eyes were squinted shut and his mouth was hanging open, almost like an invitation. Scott’s claw-adorned fingers had managed to rip a long tear vertically down the front of Stiles’ “new” shirt, and had successfully ripped off the top button of his jeans. He wasn’t sure if either of those things were entirely deliberate, but they were very happy accidents otherwise.

Stiles’ hands were awkwardly flailing in the air around Scott’s head. The teenager didn’t seem to know whether he wanted to push Scott away, or grip on tighter. Opting for the more diplomatic approach, Stiles chose to wave his arms around unintelligibly and moan like he was trying to be heard from two states away. Scott was almost certain that the whole of Nevada would appreciate the wanton sounds being ripped from Stiles’ throat.

The night sky was lit up in yet another spontaneous burst of lightening which filtered through the windows of the house, creating a strobe light effect. The sensation was almost overwhelming for Scott’s enhanced sight, and he found himself blinking away spots of light from behind his eyelids.

The momentary distraction afforded Scott some royalties though, as Stiles had finally seemed to realise what he wanted his hands to do. He was tugging roughly at the hem of Scott’s sweatshirt, possibly intending to lift it up over his head, however for that he was pulling it the _wrong way._

“Stiles,” Scott growled low in his throat, “Your hands are useless.”  
He detached himself from the other boy, (earning him a whine of protest), and steadily lifted the shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor beside them.

“Hey,” the boy protested, using one of his useless hands to slap a mock punch into his arm, “I am quite fond of tho— _uuuhhhhnnnnn…_ ”

Scott latched himself back against Stiles’ neck. If nothing else came of this night, he was certainly going to make sure that the litter of bruises marking Stiles’ neck were spectacularly difficult to hide. And unless he wanted to start wearing hipster scarves and turtleneck sweaters, Scott considered it a job well done. It certainly seemed to be an effective method of keeping him quiet for more than one moment at a time.

Impatiently batting Stiles’ innocent-intending hands out of the way, Scott’s hands snaked down to the hem of his sweatshirt. He managed to lift the shirt up over his torso, and off the top of his head without any major cause for concern.

Stiles had his hands flattened against his stomach before he had even fully disposed of the shirt, and they were tracing the delicate lines of his muscles.

As much as Stiles would try to deny it afterwards, Scott was absolutely convinced that he had taken up some kind of kitten-like purring in the back of his throat. It was almost exactly the sound made by a cat when they obnoxiously pushed their face against anything that would provide them attention.

 

There were hands everywhere, touching and roaming, searching for something to stroke. Stiles couldn’t understand what his hands were doing, flopping around like dying fish somewhere over Scott’s stomach, but he _definitely_ liked the feel of it.

He tried to reign in as much control over his extremities as he could, and with something resembling control he placed his hands gently to rest on Scott’s hips. His fingers were digging in roughly, and if it wasn’t for his friend’s advanced healing, they would probably leave bruises.

The other boy didn’t seem to mind though, and the pressure seemed to be exactly what he wanted. He hiked up his own shirt in an indication that Scott was to _take it off now please._

Scott seemed to grasp fairly quickly what Stiles wanted him to do, and for a moment Stiles was surprised that he was actually good at something important. Once the shirt was quickly removed, Scott started on Stiles’ pants, and Stiles returned the favour. Stiles’ pants fell to the floor around his ankles with a soft thud and, getting his leg caught in the pocket, nearly broke his neck stepping out of them.

That, of course, was when Derek decided to return home.

 _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to fucking die, Oh my god I’m going to die. No._  
  


Scott’s normally sensitive ears were focussed on the excited thump of Stiles’ heart and the pulse of his blood, rushing through his veins like liquid fire;

This is why he didn’t hear Death itself pull up in his conveniently smooth Camaro.

Derek’s face was red. Like violent rouge. So red that Scott was surprised there was any blood left in his body, as it all seemed now to be occupying his face.

He could only imagine the sight Derek saw before him. Stiles, standing awkwardly in his Tidy-Whities, hands deliberately placed in front of an abnormally large bulge in his underwear. And Scott, shirtless and horny, giving his best bitch stare to the man who had interrupted them.

Stiles cleared his throat, and Derek’s eyes flashed a vivid shade of blue. Scott wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought the man’s fingernails were slowly getting longer.

“Um,” Stiles began, frantically searching for something to stare at aside from the eyes burning holes in his head, “Sorry.”

_Very articulate._

Scott slowly bent down and started picking up the clothes they’d discarded. They’d finish this later.

 

Once they’d collected their abandoned clothes, they nervously tiptoed around Derek’s hulking form, which seemed to be shaking slightly out of anger. Stiles and Scott made it out of the house with all their organs firmly in place, though by all accounts they should have been ripped until they were nothing more than messy ribbons.

They drove all the way to the edge of town, to the point where Beacon Hills melted into the outlands. Stiles pulled over to the side of the road, and let out a wary laugh. Before either of them knew it they were clutching at the air, making dying noises in the back of their throats and laughing with a careless freedom. Scott looked over at the boy sitting beside him behind the wheel, tears running down his face, struggling to breathe through his laughter.

Stiles had crinkles by his eyes and was shivering like a leaf, but he looked happy, and for the first time Scott could see him forget the darkness he normally carried.

Scott didn’t know why Stiles was so appealing to him, why he gravitated towards his excited hand gestures which would often become so animated that he ended up hitting someone or breaking something. Scott had no answer for why his rapier wit and bright smile could light up a room, and make the day seem fairer and serene.

Scott had no idea why, even on the darkest of nights, Stiles could make him feel safe.

But as often as those questions reared their ugly heads in his mind, he figured that he didn’t much care why. He didn’t need an answer to every stupid question that he asked himself. He didn’t _want_ an answer to why his day was suddenly better; it just was and that was the end of it.

Asking stupid questions lead to stupid answers.

Stiles was his answer _and_ his question – and a stupid one at that.


End file.
